Sleep story · still, water
Sleep story: a lake before dawn, when you are short on time — for jet lag
Flat water, no wind, and light that has not arrived yet.
Lights off. Press begin and let the story read itself to you, at the pace of sleep.
Screen on or off — we suggest dimming it, or simply closing your eyes after the first paragraph.
The story, in full
Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Feel your wrists loosen.
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes.
Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes. If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Slower now.
Let them. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Slower.
Sleep. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Pick this one when you are short on time.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.
If this story does not settle you, try A field under snow, when the day has been loud — for the hours after a late shift, Rain on the roof or A fire dying down, before you go back to something hard — for winding down.